


what defines us

by shannedo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Ryan/Gary if you squint??, Self-Hatred, brief Nicky Butt/Ryan Giggs, past Beville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannedo/pseuds/shannedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If Gary had ever looked at Ryan that way… There was no point thinking about it. Why would Gary ever look at him like that?</i>
</p>
<p>Events that defined Ryan Giggs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what defines us

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I actually wrote this in November on his birthday and I've just kinda sat on it since then bc 1) it has some topics that are pretty taboo for United fans and 2) I don't even know if I deal with said taboo topics well enough bc my writing isn't what it used to be. Idk about this. Maybe it's too invasive? Idk. Tell me what you think.

  1. **2003** \- Ok, so maybe he was the worst person in the entire world.



Gary was crying. He was heartbroken. Had come to Ryan’s for someone to hold him and make him ok. And Ryan’s t-shirt was getting wet, his arms aching from how tightly he was holding Gary, his shoulder hurting where his friend’s fingers dug in like a grappling hook. And he felt… Nothing.

Well, nothing was a lie. He felt a lot of things at this moment. Heartache for Gary, because it was Gary and he deserved better. Anger at David. For fucking everything. Maybe guilt at how he couldn't bring himself to be sad David was gone. Definitely guilt because he couldn't bring himself to be sad that David and Gary were over. Anger at himself for that.

Gary knew that David would leave one day. He was phenomenally talented, pretty much a household name at this point and he had his sights set on things bigger than Manchester. It was inevitable. Just a sad, everyday inevitability of football and of life. Nothing lasts forever.

Despite all that, despite the inevitability and futility of it all, Gary kept crying and Ryan kept holding him. He held on tight and forgave Gary's naivety in not seeing it sooner because Gary was Gary. He was amazing, passionate, a lover and a fighter all at once. A phenomenon that Ryan felt gifted to be witnessing.

But he wouldn’t shed any tears for David, a friend he’d once held just as dear.

And maybe that said more about him than it said about David.

If anything, David Beckham made him angry. Furious, even. David was a world class talent, had the bedazzling personality and aura of a movie star, had those drop dead gorgeous good looks too. He had Gary and Manchester United eating out the palm of his hand - even the boss loved him like a son. But it wasn’t fucking good enough. He needed a pop star and Spain and Real Madrid and he didn’t care who he hurt to get it.

Fuck him.

If Gary had ever looked at Ryan that way… There was no point thinking about it. Why would Gary ever look at him like that? Ryan was a bad person, a broken person, who hated a man he called 'best friend' to his face, who never warned Gary, let him stumble and fall all by himself. He lied and felt no guilt. He hurt and felt no remorse. He was rotten to the core.

Deep down, Ryan knew David was a good person. That’s why Gary was in love with him and not Ryan. He knew that David would do just about anything for him despite the fact that Ryan wouldn’t throw water on him supposing he was on fire. He knew it.

But seriously, fuck him. He might be god awful but David could be too. Beckham had a dark side, a side that kicked and screamed like a child. He had a real selfish streak all the way through him. And Ryan wasn't to blame for that. Fuck him.

 

* * *

 

  1. **1987** \- He’d always taken pride in how good he was with a ball at his feet.



Today had been good. He’d skinned about 4 defenders and had the keeper diving the wrong way for his second goal. And when the final whistle blew, he was panting, his breath misting in front of his face and the rest of his team coming to clap him on the back. Some lad from the other team shouldered past him and he sent him a glare. Bloody Bury posh boys, rightly deserved the hammering they got today.

He'd shook the referee's hand and began traipsing back across the pitch. His fingers were sore and swollen with the cold. Already thinking about a hot shower, rinsing the sweat from his inky black curls that never sat quite right. His chest rose and fell hard but was slowing down already. That quick recovery was what made his lightning fast speed sustainable.

Then he’d noticed people still clapping, still applauding. One of his teammates tapped his shoulder and he looked up to see the boy pointing to the sidelines. So he followed his line of sight to see parents cheering him and clapping for him. His breath caught in his throat. His mouth was all dry. And he smiled, hair falling in his eyes as he looked down to the ground, kept walking. They were clapping for him and his chest swelled with pride.

He’d always enjoyed being a little bit special.

And as he walked towards the pavilion, to get a shower and a change of clothes, he heard this little boy at the sidelines go, “That boy, eleven, he was fuckin’ brilliant.”

“I’m telling Dad you said the F word!”

“You will not, not if you don't want him to find out you spent the money for your dinner on sweets. I’m just saying, he was amazing! God… I wish I could play like that.”

Ryan allowed himself a little chuckle. He sent a smile the way of the little boy with the terrible barnet. Wondered if his parents would find out about his potty mouth. Wondered what his own parents would say.

He heard his mum’s voice, saying how proud she was of him but to not let it go to his head, his talent might earn wonder and appreciation but modesty earns respect.

And he heard his father’s voice. He shouldn’t be arrogant, he wasn’t anything special anyway.

And his mum would bite her tongue.

And he’d wonder why he was ever so full of himself in the first place. There was nothing to be proud of.

 

* * *

 

  1. **2005** \- “Right. Watch yourself, lad.”



“And you, mate. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

There was a sniffling sound. “Yeah, soon. Take good care of the lot of them, Ryan. You’re a good lad.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. “Cheers, Roy. I will.”

And then the call was over. Roy would probably sit in his driveway for awhile yet. Unable to go inside and face his family. Trying to make up excuses to sit there for longer - Eric, maybe he should call Eric… No, he’d be disappointed-

Ryan didn’t envy him his position. He didn’t envy the boss’ position either. It was all a bit of a mess really. Roy was strong, the strongest of any of them and he’d been crying down the phone like a child whose dog had died. Like a man who’d just lost a hell of a lot.

And he felt for Roy, he did. He'd been angry at the time, when it all went to shit, could still see Carras spitting with rage, having a screaming match with his captain over damning comments made about his friends. Smudge actually flinched when he snapped. Fletch gave up trying to calm him down quickly and just sat on the bench behind him, staring off into the distance. Michael was the eye of their particular storm, a calm man who never raised his voice off the pitch. That's why it had been so scary, that's why things simply couldn't stay as they were. Roy had to go, but Ryan still felt for him.

Even as they'd been talking, though, he’d caught his mind wandering, wandering off poor Roy and his tears.

To an armband, lying abandoned in a dressing room. The last transition that armband had made had been from strength to strength, legend to legend, Cantona to Keane. And now, it needed to be passed on in equally grand fashion.

He’d never thought much of the captaincy, had never thought himself worthy of it anyway. He’d scored a few alright goals, given the fans some joy but he was no leader, no great inspiration to the team.

Gary was. Gary was this steady constant in the formula that no matter what you added and took away, he stayed as bright and as brilliant. So reliable everything was always ok when you had him at your back, so passionate he could carry the entire team in their darkest moments.

Gary deserved that captaincy. He was a terrible person for even thinking this when Roy’s world was still crumbling around him, but it was the truth.

(Besides, he was an even worse person when in the coming years, he’d feel that little spark of joy when he was told he’d have to stand in as captain in one of Gary’s injury spells.)

 

* * *

 

  1. **2004** \- Nicky wasn’t happy, he told himself.



Nicky loved Manchester United. But he loved football and the joy of playing more. He felt useless, sitting around, not doing what he loved to do. It wasn’t good for him.

It was just how he was raised. Honest, hard-working parents in an area where people who didn’t work for a living were no-good wastes of space. And when he was left to himself too much, as he had been, that thinking encroached on his mind, eating away at him.

It didn’t mean Ryan wouldn’t miss him.

Nicky was his closest friend, the one who always had time for him. He was loud and funny, bought him drinks, sang his songs. He’d been there when they were teenagers, fighting to get out of the respective traps they called home. He’d been there when they won the FA Youth cup - which kick started all this insanity. He’d been there, late in May 1999, in Barcelona. He joked about how they’d sing Teddy’s name for years but really, Ryan's shot was going in. He’d danced and drunk himself stupid. He kissed back when Ryan leaned forward and did what he’d always wanted to do.

He didn’t remember that part, though.

And now he was leaving.

It wasn't like Newcastle was worlds away. But it might as well be, for all it meant. No more sharing lifts to training, no more revenge pranks on Scholesy, no more lazy afternoon FIFA sessions, no more stealing every glance he could and pretending it was enough.

Nicky would meet other people who would love and appreciate him. Who'd be there every day.

Then what purpose did Ryan serve?

What else did he have to give?

 

* * *

 

  1. \- **2011** \- Wishing death on someone is bad. It’s really bad.



But he was a bad person, so those two things went hand in hand, right?

If his mum was talking to him, she’d tell him that grudges were a terrible thing and he shouldn’t let him drag him down to his level.

But his mum wasn’t talking to him. Because he was a fucking awful person. And the newspapers screamed it at him, waving his father’s words in his face. Why it was his father he was wishing death upon, he didn’t know - this was his mess. But his hatred was something to cling to. Something to tether him to Earth.

He’d hated him for a long time. Wanted to do anything to protect his mum, to protect his brother.

Protecting his brother… When was the last time he did that?

Fucking hell.

He was a terrible, terrible person.

 

* * *

 

> 1+ - **2014** \- He walked down that familiar tunnel in a suit and tie.

And the chanting and singing was deafening, incomprehensible. It was the loudest cheering he’d heard in the stadium - his stadium, his home - in months. It had been loud recently, just with jeering and suffocating silence.

But he was here now and they honestly trusted him. Trusted him to do his job, to do his best, give them something, anything to believe in. And that was crazy, made his heart beat wildly in his chest. Maybe he should be more focused on the match, his football mind in gear and not this belligerent and disbelieving awe he had, staring around the stadium that had never made him feel this small as a player. It was jammed to the rafters, they’d all come out to see him and cheer him on.

He didn’t deserve all this, he thought. Then he saw Scholesy, Phil and Nicky beaming at him from ear to ear - well, as wide as Scholesy could smile, _don't get ahead of yourself, Ryan._ And he’d practically thrown himself at Sir Alex earlier when he’d seen him, hugging him and thanking him for his help. He knew he was bursting with pride, watching him from the director’s box. He imagined Gary’s grin and the cheeky comments he’d make. He imagined his precious little boy and girl jumping up and down, pointing and saying “Dad! Look at Dad!”

And okay, he deserved it. And he was beyond grateful to be given it.

He’d loved this club through thick and thin, worked hard and achieved plenty. ( _Plenty,_ Gary would sneer. _Yeah, the most decorated footballer in history has achieved plenty... Christ, Giggsy._ ) And they seemed to like him, so maybe he should just trust their judgement.

And who knew the original lyrics to that Joy Division song anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> So... I hope it's alright? I'm actually really nervous about this, I've been deliberating about whether to post it at all for the best part of an hour. It's just that I'm openly a big supporter of this guy but I'm by no means some sort of Giggsy apologist. Yeah. Tell me what you think.


End file.
